


Once We Were Brothers

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, Curing A Demon, Demon!Dean, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 10, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam/Dean Mini-Bang Challenge, Season/Series 10 Spoilers, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demon Dean has no morals, and he goes after what he wants and what he wants is Sam.  Sam has no such excuses, but he can’t resist and he ends up giving Dean everything.</p>
<p>Once they were brothers, united in fighting the good fight, but what happens when you cross lines that should never be crossed and your brother, who once protected you, becomes worse than the things you used to hunt down and kill? </p>
<p>Can Sam break free of the hold Dean has over him?  Can he finally finish the final trial, and <i>‘cure a demon'</i>?  If he does will he die?  And will he be able to bring his brother back to humanity?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once We Were Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sam/Deam OTP mini-bang challenge 2014 on [LJ](http://samdean-otp.livejournal.com/). My artist was the wonderful [chomaisky](http://chomaisky.livejournal.com/) on LJ, I would love if you could go and [give her the kudos she deserves, for the great artwork.](http://chomaisky.livejournal.com/32347.html)
> 
> This story has been well and truly done by the show!! The storyline pretty much followed what I wrote about two months previously, (apart from the hot sex of course!). Believe me when I say that they were copying me, lol x

Crowley never came.

Sam stared at the remnants of his summoning ritual and swallowed down whiskey tears. He swayed a little on his feet as he tried to make sense of it all. Without the self-styled _King of Hell_ he had nothing. His brother was still in his room; his brother was still dead.

 

Heavy steps carried him to where he had placed Dean. His mouth tasted of stale whiskey and salt and he could barely put one foot in front of the other. He stood at the door for the longest of times, his heavy head resting against the wood. Dean had been so thrilled to have his own fucking room, decorated it and everything. He’d joked about his memory foam mattress and how it _remembered him_ and now he was lying on that mattress again, his lifeless body sprawled and bloody. Sam didn’t want to see that again but he had to. There was no one to help him move the body this time, no Bobby to help haul it into the back of his truck, no one to wield a shovel, no one to dig the fucking grave.

The room was empty. Sam stared at the rumpled, blood-stained sheets and rubbed his eyes. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks, or if the shock of seeing his brother stabbed to death had done something to his brain. He still remembered the hallucinations that he suffered when Castiel brought his wall down and this, this was far worse.

“Dean?” He moved towards the bed and knelt beside it, his trembling fingers reaching down. The cloth was wet and cold, blood smearing his fingers. Sam felt a wild, desperate panic as he pulled back the coverlet stupidly wondering what he might find underneath. “Dean?” he said again.

There was a movement behind him; subtle and swift. He could smell something sweet and putrid and he almost gagged. He didn’t know if he should turn around and his hand went to his belt, the demon killing knife tucked snugly in the thick leather. Sam whirled around so quick he almost lost his balance. For a moment all he saw was a worn black tee-shirt, faded jeans and biker boots. A battered leather jacket and dirty blond hair. There were no abrasions on his brother’s face, none on his body. The wound where the angel blade had ripped into his brother’s flesh had healed. Dean looked so fucking normal, and Sam was convinced he was going insane. Dean smiled then; cocky and confident. His smirk so recognizable and so _Dean_. Sam leaned forward with his arms out, fingers brushing against Dean’s broad shoulders, the compulsion to touch almost too much. Dean moved closer and it was only then that Sam realized there was something horribly wrong. That soft green gaze that he’d grown up looking in to, those sharp knowing eyes that told him so much, eyes that had followed him all of his life, eyes that knew him, protected him, and watched out for him had gone  
Those green eyes were now black.

“He’s a demon,” Crowley’s tone was smooth. “Sorry Moose, but he belongs to me now.” The King of Hell had finally turned up and was sitting at the large wooden table drinking, what looked like, the _Men of Letter’s_ finest whiskey. “He is going to be an able soldier and, with him by my side, I shouldn’t have to endure another challenge to my leadership.” He smirked. “No more angry gingers, ay moose?”

Sam could feel his body thrumming and he was pretty sure that he was close to passing out right there on the floor of the bunker. Black eyes peered at him from his brother’s otherwise familiar face while the self-styled King of Hell watched him with a smug expression. Sam’s mouth was dust dry and he couldn’t find the energy from within to speak. Crowley shrugged, nonchalant.

“Dean bears the mark,” he said, almost gently. “Technically he is the _Father of Murder_. He is an immortal demon, and I am his King.”

Sam blinked, he still couldn’t understand how this had happened. He’d known, deep down, that the blade was powerful and that there was something not right about Dean but this - he’d never imagined this. He blinked back stupid tears and stared at Dean remembering that, only hours ago, he’d been lying dead and bloody and now his brother was standing right there in front of him, but it wasn’t his brother anymore. All he could see was black eyes and a blank expression. There was nothing in that gaze, no affection, no anger, and no recognition. Sam had been close to hugging his brother, to welcoming him back but now, he just didn’t know what to think.

“Is this your doing?” Sam felt the anger and fear burst out of him and he directed it at Crowley. “Is it?”

“It was your brother’s choice to take the mark, Sam.” Crowley leaned back on the chair. “I did nothing to persuade him.”

“Yeah, and knowing you, you did nothing to dissuade him either!” Sam moved swiftly, his hands reaching for Crowley’s throat.

The next minute he found himself pinned hard against the concrete wall unable to move. His head hurt and there was blood in his mouth. Anger burned deep inside of him and he struggled against invisible bonds trying desperately to pull himself away from the wall.

“Don’t even try, moose,” Crowley said and smirked. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

Sam hissed in pain. His brother was standing just inches away from him watching him silently. Sam didn’t know if Dean had lost the power of speech, didn’t know if he was unable to communicate, or if he just didn’t want to.

“Please,” it was dumb appeal. “He’s my brother.”

 

“He doesn’t get to have family anymore, Moosie,” Crowley sounded almost gentle, soothing. “You have to understand that.”

“Fuck you, Crowley!” Sam cried out, his neck muscles corded and strained as he fought to get away. “Let him go! Give him his life back.”

“He has his life back,” Crowley said. “This is his life now. He is a Knight of Hell. A new knight, and he will be far better than any that have gone before him.”

“Please.” Sam was aware that his cheeks were damp, his throat thick with salt. “Please.”

“Isn’t this better than burying him?” Crowley asked suddenly and Sam felt bile rise in his gut as he realized, with awful clarity, that this was how Dean must have felt when Sam was dying, when Dean allowed Gadreel to enter his body and save him. His brother was a demon, a Knight of Hell, but he was still Dean and he was still alive in some way. The choice was obvious; the choice was, in reality, no choice at all.

“Yes,” he all but whispered. “Forgive me, but yes.”

And with that Crowley and his brother vanished in a flash of stinking sulphur leaving Sam sprawled sobbing on the hard floor of the bunker.

He hardly slept those first few weeks; spent hour upon hour in the _Men of Letter’s_ library reading dusty tomes until his eyes were burning in agony and his fingertips sore and grimy. There was no one he could call to help with his research, no Bobby on the end of the phone, no Frank, no Garth. He’d thought he was alone back when Dean and Castiel had vanished in a flash of black goo, but now, now this was a thousand times worse.

He spent literally days on his knees praying, but Cas either didn’t hear him or didn’t care because no one came. He had no idea what the state of play was in heaven. He had seen Metatron vanish after _killing_ his brother, but he had no clue as to what happened next.

Before he realized it a month had gone by, and he hadn’t left the bunker. He hadn’t eaten a solid meal for weeks, and was living solely on gut wrenching whiskey and whatever he could find in the cupboards. He was aware that he smelled, unwashed, his hair a greasy mess. Often he would black out completely and come to, lying on the bunker floor in a pile of his own disgusting vomit. Death would have been more than welcome to him right about then, but he still had a demon brother out there somewhere and, deep down inside his head, a tiny voice was urging him to _save Dean_.

Sam was only mildly surprised when he woke up late one afternoon to find his brother standing over him. Dean looked good - well, as good as anyone who is a demon can look. He was dressed in familiar denim and plaid but his hair was longer, his face thinner, sharp and animal like. Sam swallowed hard as he realized that Dean’s eyes weren’t black anymore, they were green and they were narrowed, feral. Dean was holding the first blade. He gripped it so tight in one hand that his knuckles were white. Sam felt utter relief that Crowley had sent his brother to kill him.

Crowley had told the _Father of Murder_ to hack him down. 

Sam shifted his stinking body so that he was lying on his back in supplication. He never thought he’d be so happy to see someone, he never thought he’d be so fucking ready to die.

“Not happening,” Dean’s voice was rusty, unused. “I’m not here to kill you, Sammy.”

Disappointment thick and painful flooded his throat and salt clogged his lashes. He tried to raise himself up to his knees but he was too weak, and too tired. He stared up at Dean wordlessly.

“Why? Crowley’d be happy to see me gone.” It isn’t what he wanted to say to his brother. All the impulses in his battered body were firing and he just wanted Dean to kneel down and hold him for a while, hold him and then kill him mercifully.

“That limey mook’s not gonna’ be happy to see anyone.” Dean’s expression was unreadable. “He’s fucking dead.”

“Dead?” The jolt of shock made him feel nauseous. “How?”

“I killed him.” Dean licked his lips as if he was tasting blood all over again. He stroked his fingers lovingly over the jagged edges of the blade and Sam couldn’t hold back the meager contents of his stomach a moment longer, bile spewing out of him and splattering the floor with evil smelling liquid. “Fuck, Sammy.” Dean was still talking but he sounded distant, remote. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

Sam felt as if his head was made of cotton candy, it seemed inexplicable that a full blown demon was standing in the bunker questioning his personal hygiene. He laughed then, hysterical and wry and Dean hauled him to his feet. The world spun wildly for a moment and then turned to black.

When he woke up he was lying on his bed and he smelt fresh and clean for the first time in ages, his damp hair dripping across his naked shoulders. He recognized, with dawning shock, that he was nude and that Dean was sitting beside him, rough denim of his jeans brushing uncomfortably against Sam’s bare thighs.

“Father of murder and now King of Hell,” Dean said, nonchalantly, as if he was asking Sam what he wanted for lunch. “Takes a bit of getting used to, but – fuck – when it comes down to it, it’s liberating.”

Sam’s throat ached and he felt oddly hot despite the fact he was stripped bare, his brother’s eyes on him like a brand.

“There are things I've wanted for years,” Dean was still talking, his voice even, chatty almost. “Things the _human_ me craved. I never acted on my impulses then but now, now I can do what I want, and there is no one in Heaven or on Earth who can stop me.”

“Dean . . . .” There were so many things Sam wanted to say but he couldn’t. He was fuzzy headed and he didn’t quite comprehend what his brother (was this still his brother? Was there anything of Dean left?) was saying. 

“You’re beautiful, Sammy.” Dean ran a thick finger across Sam’s chest, slow and steady, his nail sharp against flesh. “You always have been beautiful, even when you were slugging down demon blood, even when you were riding that sinful bitch.” He smirked. “And I’ve always wanted you, I’ve always wanted that beauty to be mine.”

Sam swallowed down bile. His brother’s finger was moving forever downwards, stopping just beneath his navel, just above his _happy trail_. Suddenly Sam knew, he knew what was going to transpire and, with terrible clarity, he knew it was going to happen whether he wanted it or not.

Dean smirked at him as he kept his finger moving, until it rested on the head of Sam’s cock. Sam gritted his teeth, shocked when he felt it starting to harden, and fill with blood. He shook his head, denial strong in his veins. 

“You don’t want this,” he said, alarmed at how breathless he was. “I don’t want this. We’re brothers.”

He gasped as Dean brought the rest of his hand into play.

“ _Little Sammy_ doesn’t seem to think like you do.” Dean licked his lips and tightened his grip, wrapping all of his fingers around Sam’s hardness and smoothing it up and down, repeating those movements as he watched Sam’s face. Sam tried to hold back, this was his brother, he shouldn’t be enjoying this, it was bad, sinful, and all kinds of wrong. His cock was betraying him, getting harder, and the ache in it became almost unbearable. It had been a long time sure, but this, he shouldn’t want this. His body throbbed with need and his cock was now harder than ever and leaking steadily. Dean laughed and he bent forward, mouth open, looking for the entire world as if he was going to kiss Sam. Instead, he dug his teeth into the side of Sam’s neck and bit hard. Sam cried out and, to his shock, came hard and fast, splattering his brother’s knuckles and wrist with his seed.

He ached all over; there were bites on his neck and chest and he was covered in bodily fluids. Dean was gone but he was certain that he would be back. He showered slowly. For some unknown reason he felt more alive than he had done in a long, long time. His body throbbed with feeling and, to his disgust, not all of those sensations were bad ones. On some level he had enjoyed it, enjoyed it way too much. Dean was a demon but Sam, Sam might be starved of touch, starved of affection, starved of sex, but he was still human and he shouldn’t have wanted it.

When he finally felt clean he dressed in worn sweat pants and one of Dean’s old Metallica tees. It still smelled of his brother – his human brother – and the very feel of it against Sam’s skin made him want to weep again, the pain in his throat almost overwhelming. He had listened to what Dean had said to him, about how Dean thought he was beautiful, and he had always wanted him. Shit, he knew that demons lied but was Dean lying? Had Dean always had these feelings for Sam? He didn’t know the answer but he did know that his brother wouldn’t have ever acted on his feelings. Dean loved him for sure, but physical intimacy would never have entered his head. 

He slept fitfully, images flitted through his brain; sharp black and white snippets of Dean over and above him, Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s hands. Visions exploded painfully; he saw himself soulless again, and fucking random faceless women, pure mindless pleasure, no affection, and no care whatsoever.

When he woke he was painfully erect, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a hand on his body. He lay beneath the sheets breathing sharply through his nose until the sensations subsided and, when sleep just wouldn’t come he got up and put on a pot of coffee wondering what the hell he was going to do next.

Fresh air hit him with a shiver. It was Fall, and he hadn’t realized how cold it was getting. He had been stinking in the bunker for way too long and he needed to get out and walk a little.

Dean was waiting for him in a deserted play park sitting on a battered old bench, one leg crossed casually over the other. He looked relaxed and healthy, better than he had done in a long while. Shades covered his eyes and Sam wondered if they were green or black beneath.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean gestured that Sam sit beside him. “Busy, busy, busy being the King of Hell, but I’ve always got time for my pain in the ass little brother.”

Sam slumped down and stared off into the middle distance to avoid making any sort of eye contact with his brother. He felt off kilter, wrong. Dean still smelled like gun oil and leather, old spice and something that was intrinsically Dean. The fact that all of this was overlaid with the stink of sulphur was so very wrong and Sam wondered if he should just reach for the demon knife and . . . .

“You think that something like that will work on me?” Dean sounded amused rather than angry, and Sam was plunged back almost six years to Anna’s church and Alastair’s cruel laughter. “Sammy, you should know that by now, I was expecting better from you.”

“Dean,” he almost choked on the name and he wondered when the fuck he was going to stop crying. Shit, he was turning into some sort of Victorian heroine, swooning and weeping at the sign of any trouble. He should have ended all of this shit months ago, but it still hung over him like a cloud, dull and heavy.

“Sam.” A hand rested heavy on his thigh; familiar blunt nails, calluses from years of working on guns and the Impala, knuckles scarred. “You don’t have to fear me. I’d never hurt you, little brother.”

The hand was moving now and Sam felt as if he was careering downhill, plunging faster and faster, unstoppable. He could feel his pants tighten and he was hard beneath his zipper. He wanted to throw up, appalled at himself and these fucking unnatural feelings. Dean grabbed him by the shoulders then and pushed him gently. He knew what his brother wanted and he didn’t want to do this, shouldn’t want to do this. Dean’s hands pushed harder then, and Sam fell to his knees in front of Dean. Dean made light work of his own zipper and pulled his cock out of his boxers, offering Sam the head, pressing it against his closed lips. Sam gulped and, almost without thought, his tongue snaked out and licked at Dean’s cock. Dean groaned with pleasure, gripping Sam hard on the cheeks and holding him still as he began to slowly fuck his mouth. Sam had never given a blow job before, but he was certain that his brother was enjoying himself. Sam’s teeth scraped against Dean’s erection but his brother didn’t seem to care. He continued to thrust into Sam’s mouth and Sam nearly choked, spit trickling down his chin. He was so fucking turned on it was stupid and he kept telling himself he shouldn’t be. They were family. Shit! He loved his brother, but this, this was a whole new level of sin. His cock hurt and he pressed his palm against his jeans, the sudden pressure making him gasp as he came almost instantly, Dean following him down, flooding his mouth with salty warmth, plunging in over and over until he was finally done. As the endorphins wore off he felt the guilt kick in; he might try to tell himself he wasn’t consenting, that he wasn’t enjoying it, but he knew, deep down, that he was lying.

He brushed the leaves from his jacket and stumbled to his feet, the air stank of sulphur and his lungs were thick with it, heavy breaths being dragged out of him, painful and labored. He felt as if he was being watched, a thousand black eyes on him as he staggered loose-limbed back to the bunker. No amount of hot water was going to wash away the sin of incest, and he slumped down on the floor of the kitchen reaching into the nearest cupboard and pulling out the first bottle of alcohol that he could find there.

His brother wouldn’t want to live like this, of that Sam was certain. He remembered his own reaction to finding an angel had been riding him for months, he remembered his anger and the sharp, heated words he’d thrown at his brother, barbed just right to hurt and maim. Now, lying semi-conscious in his kitchen, surrounded by liquor of an unknown origin he realized that he was as culpable as his brother was, keeping Dean alive against his will and letting Dean live like this. But how did he let his brother go? How could he kill the fucking King of Hell, the Father of Murder? Sam didn’t have any answers and he wondered, more than once, if it would be better to just kill himself.

He was afraid, fear wasn’t a rare emotion for the Winchesters but this was different. He didn’t think he’d ever been afraid of his brother before. Worried about him – yeah, on many occasions and angry with him – more times than he could count. Irritated? Shit, Dean could try the patience of a saint, but frightened? Never.

Now he was petrified and huddling in his room knowing that no amount of locks or bolts would keep the _King of Hell_ away from him. He warded the place, devil’s traps on the ceiling and on the floor, but he knew that wasn’t going to hold Dean. Despite being a demon his brother was still as stubborn and as pig-headed as ever and nothing was going to keep him from Sam. No amount of warding or praying would be enough. Dean had always owned him heart and soul, and things were no different now.

Right on cue his brother appeared lying half naked on Sam’s bed. Dean virtually exuded sex, bow legs encased in soft leather, feet bare. His eyes were pure black today and that alone made Sam want to run. He stayed where he was, huddled in his corner like some frightened child, wishing he was anywhere else but here.

“Do I scare you?”

Sam lifted his eyes to stare into those unwelcome black orbs and he couldn’t lie, hell he couldn’t lie to Dean when Dean was human so he was certain he wouldn’t be able to fool the demon version.

“Yeah,” he said and swallowed hard. “You do.”

“You know, Sam,” Dean said, conversationally, as if they were sitting opposite each other in a diner, ankles tangled, and eating pie. “I sometimes want to rip your soul right back out of you again. Fuck, you were so different when you didn’t have it, and to think I thought you needed it. Imagine the carnal pleasures we could share if you didn’t have this guilty fear of what we do together. I know you secretly want it as much as I do, Sammy and I know it’s only that damned pure soul of yours that keeps you from enjoying it.”

Sam shook his head, he felt disconnected somehow, as if he were floating above his trembling body. Dean slithered off the bed and crawled over. He cupped Sam’s chin in his hand and pulled his head up hard so that he was forced to stare into the dark depths of Dean’s eyes.

“And don’t even think of offing yourself, I’m more powerful than old yellow-eyes and Lucifer both, and I can just put you back together again. I’ll keep all demons away from you too.” He smirked. “There’ll be no deals, Sam. No get out clauses, and no escape. You’re mine, Sam. You’ve always been mine.”

“You’re my brother,” Sam choked it out, tears smudging messily down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them anymore than he could stop Dean from putting his arms around his waist and pulling him up close.

“Makes no difference to me, Sam,” the familiar voice was almost a purr. “And soon it’ll make no difference to you either.”

Sam got in the Impala and drove for miles without stopping, the scenery rolling by unseen. He pushed an old worn tape into the deck, the music so loud it made his ears hurt, but he didn’t turn it down, it blotted out any thoughts he might have, blotted out everything and it didn’t stop until he did.

He got out at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere and there were no other cars and no sign of life. He took a leak, washed his hands and splashed his hot face with cold water. As he looked up he saw his own reflection in the mirror and it scared him. He was milk pale, shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and too much alcohol. His hair was sticky with grease and there were hickeys clearly visible above his collar, thick and purple; marks of ownership. There was a scar above his breastbone where his tattoo used to be and he rubbed at it idly trying to recall what it was like all those months Gadreel was inside of him. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what Dean was thinking or feeling. Dean wasn’t possessed, he _was_ a demon and, however much he seemed like Sam’s brother, he wasn’t. Not anymore. 

He got back into the car and drove on. He had no idea where he was going, or why he was driving. Maybe, in some distant corner of his mind, he thought he could escape this, he thought he could get away. The music ebbed and flowed around him and he tried not to think of happier times, of singing along with Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, of playfully fighting with Dean about his song choices.

_”Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole!”_

Fuck, things were so innocent back then. How did they ever come to this?

Eventually he turned _baby_ around and headed back to the bunker. It had been a pathetic and futile attempt at escape, and he guessed that, wherever he was, Dean must be laughing at him. His whole body was vibrating with pain that was both mental and physical. His ass hurt and his skin tingled and he felt as if he had lost his liberty and his mind.

Back at the bunker he sought out what alcohol he had left, figuring he was gonna have to make a supply run soon. He found himself drifting in and out of random rooms, his fingers trailing over dust covered surfaces, sharp and cold. Somehow, he found himself outside of Kevin’s old room and he paused for a long moment before letting himself in.

He wondered if the doors of heaven had been opened yet. He hoped that Kevin wasn’t still wandering in the veil waiting to be let in. He could still see his hands reaching out and touching Kevin’s forehead, still smell the putrid stench of burning flesh, see eye sockets singed and empty. However much he drank, however much he tried, he would never be able to sear those images from his mind and they just added to the long line of nightmare visuals that kept him awake at night.

The room smelt musty. It hadn’t been used since Kevin’s death, and all of his stuff was where he’d left it. His mom had taken his personal effects and his clothes but his notebooks and post-it’s were still on his writing table, books from the library stood open, pages marked with bright colored paper. Sam swallowed hard as tears stung his eyes, clinging thickly to his lashes. He moved over to the desk and sat, heavily, in the chair. It creaked alarmingly, tipped a little under his weight. He bent forward to look at Kevin’s almost illegible scrawl and then it hit him, hard and fast, his breath catching painfully in his throat.

There was a list, typed this time, almost business like in its preciseness.

  
** The Trials – Closing the Gates of Hell **

1st Trial – Kill a Hellhound and bathe in its blood.  
2nd Trial – Free an innocent soul from Hell  
3rd Trial – Cure a demon

_Cure a demon._

Sam stared at those three words as if he’d never seen them before. He’d done it with Crowley, and it had almost worked, he had been so close when Dean had stopped him, so fucking close and he’d stopped because his big brother had asked him to. He knew what to do, he had the equipment and the rituals, and all he needed was Dean.

He couldn’t sleep and he tossed and turned restlessly as the weight of his decision held him down. He hadn’t truly completed the trials, but what if he did? If he cured Dean would that kick start everything? Would the gates of hell close? He had no real comprehension, all he knew was whatever had been resonating in him had long since ceased. There was no grace left inside of him, no purity. Perhaps he could just cure Dean and everything would be fine, perhaps they could catch a break for once.

He laughed wryly. Yeah, right, as if the Winchesters had ever been able to _catch a break_. He knew, without question that if he cured Dean and died in the process that Dean would just try to bring him back again. It was a circle that was never going to be broken, one of them sacrificing themselves for the other. 

Over and over. 

Forever and ever. 

Amen.

Sam had tried to break the cycle of co-dependency. He’d run away to Stanford, he’d fucking died, he’d jumped into the pit with Lucifer, and he hadn’t looked for Dean when he had vanished along with Castiel. He’d been on the cusp of leaving with Death and still, still he had been dragged back into it again.

He loved his brother; loved him in so many ways, loved him in ways that weren’t right, that would never be right. He hadn’t hesitated when he’d seen Kevin’s notes earlier, he’d picked them up and rammed them into his pockets. He was going to save Dean whatever the consequences.

It might have been an easy decision to make but, in the long run, Sam had no clue as to how he was going to subdue his brother (now a demon, King of Hell and Father of all Murder) enough to hold him. He had all the requisite items he needed to begin the ritual, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to hold Dean. He still had the demonic handcuffs but his brother wasn’t a fool and it had been hard enough to trick Dean as a human, so trying to do it to the newly born demon was going to be even harder. The whole thing was made more difficult by the fact that Sam didn’t have many allies left alive or hunting. Garth was living as a werewolf somewhere, Charlie was in Oz and he didn’t want to put Jodie in this kind of danger. There were other hunters of course, but Sam had a deep mistrust of them, just as he was certain that they had an even deeper mistrust of Sam. Castiel wasn’t hearing prayers, and Gadreel didn’t answer either. Sam didn’t know if both of the angels were dead or just trapped in heaven. He hadn’t felt so utterly alone since Dean had gone to Purgatory and, deep down inside of him, a little voice was telling him that he should get out while the going was good.

“Long time no see, Sammy.” Dean was sitting at the table with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked good, better than good if truth be told. He was wearing an honest to God suit, fitted perfectly so it clung to his hips and thighs, white shirt open at the throat showing a strip of pale skin. Sam felt his jeans get tight just staring and he sat down quickly, his ears burning.

“Yeah, well, I guess you’ve been busy in hell.” It seemed bizarre that they were even having this conversation. Apart from the suit and the odd smell of sulphur that always clung to Dean these days it was as if they were just hanging out drinking scotch together, just two brothers like always.

“Bitterness doesn’t suit you.” Dean threw back the whiskey. “How about those killer dimples instead.”

“Dean . . . ,” he began but his brother put paid to anything else that might have come from his lips by rising to his feet and raising his hand. To Sam’s horror and surprise, he felt his fly being pulled down, and his shirt unbuttoned. In less than a minute he was naked and yet his brother hadn’t even touched him yet. Dean smirked, the smirk he used to use when flirting with waitresses, the smirk that always got him extra pie. Today his eyes were green and they gazed at Sam with intent.

“Lay down,” Dean commanded and Sam was on the table before he realized what was happening. He felt hot and exposed and yet he was unbelievably turned on. Dean could see that too, and his smirk grew wider, bigger, hands reaching for Sam. “You want this, Sam, so don’t even begin to deny it.” Dean’s hands smoothed gently down his flanks. He licked at Sam’s cock, both of them watching as it rose up against his quivering belly. “Little Sammy wants it too.”

“Dean, don’t,” it was a pointless, stupid plea. Dean shook his head and enveloped Sam’s cock with those lips. Sam had always thought his brother’s lips were pretty and he’d heard them called _cock-sucking lips_ on several occasions but he never thought he’d be on the fucking receiving end.

Dean was good at it, he sucked and licked, pulling at Sam’s balls until Sam was almost mindless with it. His brother’s right hand moved down lower and rubbed at the crease of Sam’s ass, his intention obvious. Sam moaned in protest and acceptance, his mind and body confused. Dean laughed then and, without preamble, thrust a finger into Sam. Sam rose up from the table and he felt his body being pushed back down. Dean was everywhere, all around him, hands, fingers, mouth all working in tandem. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Dean whispered almost casually. “And you’re gonna’ let me.”

“No!” It would be the final step, a step too far. Sam wanted to get up and run but Dean held him down with his demon power and his hands. He kept him there, back pressed against the table as he crawled between Sam’s legs and flipped him over. Sam was on his hands and knees then, Dean’s hands digging marks into his hips, Dean inside of him and it was painful and passionate and sinful and Sam came with a wordless groan unable to stop his brother even if he wanted to.

Days and then weeks passed in a blur and around about the third week Sam woke tied to his bed and realized that he had lost control. His mouth was dry and his stomach rumbled. He was naked, his body covered in bites, scratches and various other lesions that he couldn’t identify. He shuddered and turned his face into the pillow. He was under Dean’s control, of that much he was certain. Dean was powerful, more powerful than yellow-eyes, more powerful than Crowley, hell, more powerful than Abaddon. Sam knew his task to _cure_ Dean was going to be a difficult one but he hadn’t realized just how difficult until this moment. He had no concept of how to stop Dean let alone capture him. Dean had gotten stronger and stronger; he could use his mind to subdue, and just a wave of the hand to control. Sam was also convinced Dean could read minds, so he had to keep his thoughts to himself, his brain deliberately blank. He wished, fervently, that he had a plan but he didn’t, he had nothing. He was wrapped up tight in Dean’s thrall and, somewhere along the way he’d lost his free will.

He struggled against the ties on his wrists and ankles. Dean was an expert with knots and he hadn’t much hope of getting free. He tried to think beyond the fuzz in his brain, tried to come to some sort of solution to all of this. He never thought he would wish for angel possession again but it would have been useful right about now. He licked his dry lips, remembering how he used to drink Ruby’s blood, how the blood had made him feel strong, powerful. He thought, seriously, of drinking Dean’s blood, drinking that sulphurous mixture that they both shared. 

He could feel his wrists chafing, the skin worn bloody and thin. He was exhausted, worn through and so fucking isolated. He wanted out; he had had enough. Why couldn’t the Winchester’s ever catch a break? Why couldn’t they just retire somewhere and live in fucking peace? If there was a God anywhere, or even someone in heaven who might be listening Sam prayed fervently that he or she would listen to him and set him fucking free.

“Wanna’ get out, Sammy?” Dean’s callused fingers worked over the ropes around his wrists, pulling them free almost instantly. His ankles were freed without Dean even touching them and he bent over rubbing his ankles to get the blood flowing.

“Yeah.” He was shocked by the sudden offer but relieved to be able to move again. “But I need a shower first and I need to get some clothes on.”

Dean leered at him but he acquiesced and let Sam shower – alone. Feeling better Sam dressed in a faded old tee and jeans before going to join his brother.

Dean was leaning against the Impala and, in a jolting moment, he looked more like Sam’s big brother than he had in a long time. He opened the passenger door and let Sam inside beaming big and wide.

“Missed this,” he whispered as he did Sam’s seat belt up as if he was a child. “Missed my baby, and you riding shotgun.”

Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat, he missed it too, missed it like one of his limbs had been ripped from his body. He leaned against the window, glass cool against his hot flesh. Dean put the key in the ignition and fired her up, thrusting an ACDC tape into the cassette player and ramping up the volume. As the scenery whirled by and Dean tapped along to the music Sam could almost make himself believe they were just Sam and Dean driving to another hunt, or another sleazy motel room. 

After an hour or two, the car stopped and Sam lifted his head to see Dean staring at him with bright green eyes. His brother was still smiling but the smile was tight, false and he narrowed his eyes.

“Sam.” He shook his head. “You can’t _save_ me. I don’t want to be saved.”

“Dean.” The shock of knowing that his brother **KNEW** made Sam feel sick right down to his gut. “I-I. . . .”

“You don’t really want to save me.” Dean’s fingers caressed his jaw and moved down to pinch at his nipple. “If I went back to being just _Dean_ we couldn’t do what we do.” He licked his lips. “Don’t say you don’t enjoy it, Sammy.”

“I just want. . . .” he couldn’t continue, Dean’s hand moved so that it rested across his heart.

“Let me just take away that troublesome soul, Sammy. Let me give you the same release as the blade gave me. If you made me your brother again, we couldn’t fuck like we do, couldn’t put our hands and mouths on each other.” He smirked. “Come on, Sam. You don’t want to end this.”

Sam leaned towards his brother and brushed his lips across Dean’s, slow and encouraging, he put his hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the silver handcuffs, clipping them around Dean’s wrist and attaching the end to the wheel. He pulled back to see Dean’s angry face, his black eyes, his bared teeth and the sadness that hit him was almost agonizing in its intensity.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered, defeated. “But I have to end this, Dean. I have to.”

He remembered his brother’s delight when they had found the hidden room.

_’We have a dungeon – finally’._

Despite everything that was happening with the trials there had been happy times. Sam and Dean working with each other trying to save the world. They had been on the same page then, they had had each others backs. After a year of total separation and weeks of suspicion, they had come together at last, and it had been awesome. Sam had never felt so protected and, despite the year he had spent with Amelia, no one had ever loved him more than Dean. Now as he fastened his brother’s wrists and ankles to the chair he thought back to those days and he wished, not for the first time, that he had completed the trials. 

It was dark in the dungeon, the stink of damp and rot prevalent in the air. There was a Devil’s trap painted on the ceiling and another more complicated one on the floor. Runes and protection sigils lined the walls and there was enough holy water and salt to make Sam feel a little safer.

Dean fought against the bonds like a wild thing, he was snarling; his teeth bared, blood already smeared across his bottom lip. There was no pretense now, his eyes permanently black, ebony orbs that burned into Sam’s soul, the hatred on his face agonizing.

There was no chapel to do this, but he knelt and bent his head burying his already damp face in his hands, his mouth dry, throat throbbing. This could be the end for him but, deep down, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out the words. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m sorry I didn’t finish the trials. I’m sorry I didn’t go with Death. I’m sorry for making my brother miserable by lying to him and . . . .” He swallowed hard, realizing that he couldn’t honestly say he was sorry for having sex with his brother. He couldn’t honestly say that he regretted committing the sin of incest. It hadn’t been entirely lust, not all about physical pleasure. “I know it was wrong,” he whispered to whoever was listening in the cloying darkness. “But I don’t regret it, I’m not ashamed of it. I love him. I’ve always loved him, more than anything in my life, and that’s never going to change.”

He got up then, knees creaking as he staggered to his feet. He still had the syringes, he still had the ritual and he was as ready as he would ever be. All he could hope was that he would be able to cure Dean, and if he died in the attempt his brother would have the wisdom not to bring him back this time. He lowered his head and said one last final prayer.

“Save Dean,” he begged. “And stop him from saving me.”

It wasn’t like it was with Crowley. _The King of Hell_ had been his usual cocky self at first, making comments, singing songs, generally winding Sam up. Dean was different, Dean was worse. There was little left of his brother in the feral black-eyed monster that sat writhing in the chair trying to escape from the bonds that held it there. Dean struggled and screamed, spat in Sam’s face, cursed him, and threatened him. It hurt but Sam kept going, he had to keep going. There was no other option.

The syringe stung as he plunged it into his arm. He didn’t feel like he had before, he wasn’t weak or ill only a little light headed through blood loss. Four hours and it felt like four days, the fleshy sounds as he thrust the needle into Dean’s exposed neck, his brother’s cries, it was enough to make him want to stop but he wouldn’t stop.

“They’ll come for me,” Dean’s voice was low and pained. “They’ll come for me, Sam and they’ll rip you limb from limb. We could have had it all Sammy, but you chose this.” He rolled his head, the blood smearing across his collar. “You won’t get your big brother back, but when we’re done and you’re dead we’ll have some fun in hell.”

Sam gritted his teeth. He felt faint, the room darkening around him, his eyes fuzzy. God he missed Dean even though this facsimile was sitting here before him, he missed his big brother so much. He was alone, abandoned and he stared into nothing willing that familiar stick thin figure to appear and take him away.

By the seventh dose Dean had quietened; he wasn’t babbling like Crowley had done but he looked more human again, more like _Dean_. Sam glanced at his watch and noted that his hand was shaking way too much. If he could, he would have laid down and closed his eyes but he had one more dose and then the ritual. He glanced up at his brother and saw tired green eyes staring back at him.

“You’re killing yourself Sammy,” Dean choked the words out. “You’re gonna’ die.”

“Maybe.” Sam couldn’t smile because it hurt too much. “But I’m saving you, Dean.”

There was silence for a long time and then Sam picked up the last syringe, filling it to the brim with his blood. This was it, in five minutes it would be over, in five minutes he would know if the cure had worked. The room seemed suddenly cold and he shuddered, goose bumps rising on his tepid skin. Dean tipped his head back welcoming the final dose and Sam recalled how Crowley had done the same. He was praying wordlessly as he administered the blood and he couldn’t stop shivering, his hand juddering wildly as he slashed his knife along his palm and began to read the ritual. 

This time there was no Dean to run in at the last second, no Dean to tell him to stop, no declaration of love and devotion, just their mingled breathing and the heavy cold thud of his heart. He finished the ritual stumbling over his words and trying hard not to weep. Before he could change his mind he rammed his hand over Dean’s open mouth.

“Lustro!” 

The world exploded.

He was lying on the ground, it was hard and cold and there was a strong stink of sulphur in the air. His eyelids felt like they had weights attached to them, his limbs heavy and aching. The pain in his body was intense, fever hot like it had been during the final trial. He tried to lift his head but he couldn’t and he coughed feebly, blood filling his mouth.

“Sammy?” Familiar hands tucked under his head, voice frantic. “Fuck! Sammy, open your eyes. Open your eyes.”

He tried but he just didn’t have the strength and he wondered if he had dreamed the last few months and that if he did manage to see again there would be angels falling from the sky.

“Sam,” that voice again, insistent. “You’re alive, Sam. Fuck, open your eyes.”

Light filtered in through his lashes, a feeble thread of gold. He coughed again and something was held to his lips, cold liquid flooding his throat, taking away the taste of blood. The hand behind his head lifted it a little higher and his neck protested. He groaned and the fingers that held him rubbed across his shoulders and down his spine. He managed to lift his lids just that little bit higher and he saw the blur that was Dean’s face, pale and desperate.

“Can’t . . . ,” he managed to grind out that one word, throat rough. “I-It hurts.”

He was aware of something hot and wet hitting his face and he realized in dim, distant shock that his brother was crying. Dean was crying. His heart began to pound weakly in his chest and his breath came out in short, sharp pants straining his lungs. Dean was crying, his brain kept supplying that one message over and over, Dean was crying and demons . . . demons didn’t cry.

When he came back to himself again there was something soft beneath him. He could smell fabric detergent and cologne, something savory that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble hungrily. He was aware that he didn’t ache anymore, and that his cough seemed to have stopped. He lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes. He felt good, almost too good and panic threaded through his veins.

“Dean!” He knew he sounded frantic. “Dean.”

His brother appeared almost instantly, his face was pale and he looked worn through, but his eyes were still that familiar shade of moss green and his expression was warm, and hopeful.

“Sam,” he sounded relieved. “Hey.”

He couldn’t stop staring at his brother. Dean looked like _Dean_ again, and Sam felt his throat close, the tears stinging sharp and salty.

“You . . . .” Sam was aware that he was crying, sobs shaking him, he couldn’t form anymore words and he buried his head into his own hands.

He felt Dean’s strong arms go around him and pull him up against his chest. Comprehension dawned in him slow and strong, he had done it, he had cured a demon and he was still alive. Joy and amazement warred with terror and suspicion in his gut. He was still alive. Why? How? What had his newly cured _demon_ brother done?

“I’ve not . . . ,” Dean’s voice was distant, low and gentle. “I’ve not done anything, Sammy.”

“No angels?” He managed to gasp out, still sobbing, unable to stop himself.

“No angels, Sam.” Dean held him closer. “Just me and you. You did it Sam. You cured me.” Dean was smiling, there wasn’t a mark on him and he looked better than he had in decades. Sam swallowed down guilt and bile as he recalled the last few months, remembering what he and his demon brother had done in the dark.

“What do you remember?” He could barely get the words out. “What do you remember, Dean?”

“I remember fighting with Metatron and the sword going in – fuck, it hurt, Sammy. You got me out of there, you held me up Sam, and then . . . ,” he paused and frowned. “Crowley was talking to me.” He shrugged and passed his hand across his eyes, a familiar gesture. “Nothing after that . . . nothing until I woke up in the fucking dungeon with you passed out on the floor.”

“But you know you were a demon?” Sam felt sick, nausea rising. “The mark resurrected you as a fucking demon.”

“Yeah.” Dean frowned and it was obvious he was trying to remember.

“Crowley took you,” Sam said and breathed out through his nose and tried to keep his voice calm. Tears smeared down his face and he wiped at them angrily. “You went to hell, Dean.”

“Where is that limey mook?” Dean was still frowning, his expression one of total confusion.

“You killed him,” Sam laid it out starkly. “Or so you said.”

“I don’t remember anything.” Dean’s gaze was panicked. “Did I . . . ? Did I hurt you?”

Sam shook his head, he couldn’t speak because there was nothing he could say. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dust dry. Memories of having sex with his brother were clear as crystal in his mind but it was obvious that Dean didn’t recall any of it.

“Sam, you cured me! You cured a demon.” Dean’s eyes were wide. “Are the gates of hell closed? What’s gonna happen now?”

Sam shook his head wordlessly. He didn’t know, all that had mattered was that Dean was cured, and that Dean wasn’t a demon any longer. He hadn’t thought beyond that moment, hadn’t even considered that he would survive it. Now he was alive, and Dean was alive too, and while he should be ecstatic, he was terrified, terrified that Dean would remember and when he did . . . .

“Sam!” All he heard was his brother’s voice, all he felt was his brother’s arms around him and he let himself fall, fall into darkness and into the brief comfort of his brother’s warm and solid embrace.

They stayed in the bunker because neither of them felt up to leaving.

Sam still ached a little, he had lost a fair amount of blood during the demon curing ritual and he felt tired and weak, exhaustion dragging him constantly into restless sleep. Dean hovered over him like a mother hen constantly trying to tempt him with food or drink. He brought a TV into the room so that they could watch it together, he read to Sam as if he were five years old again, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop touching Sam; hands tender through his hair, fingers rubbing his aching shoulders.

It was awkward, Sam had gotten used to very different touches from Dean and he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss that. He didn’t understand why he felt that way. He had cured Dean, he had his big brother back, but he still wasn’t happy. Fuck, he was a selfish bastard, always wanting what he couldn’t have. He’d taken everything from Dean and he wasn’t going to take anymore. Eventually things would go back to normal between them and they could, finally, get on with their lives. He wasn’t sure if the gates of hell were closed, didn’t know how the fuck they would find out. He didn’t know about heaven because, despite his prayers, he hadn’t heard from Castiel at all, and he had no idea where their friend had gone. Everything was fucked up, nothing was normal (whatever that was) anymore, and Sam wished fervently for those early days when all they hunted were restless spirits and pissed off Wendigos and they were, for all intents and purposes, happy.

He knew that he was going to have to tell Dean the truth, there had been so many lies between them in the past and he didn’t want to build another wall. For the first time since Dean fetched Sam from Stanford they felt like brothers and Sam didn’t want to ruin that feeling. They were enjoying each others company, laughing, joking, and sharing memories. Once Dean found out what had happened during his reign as _demonic King of Hell_ things would change and Sam was convinced they would be ripped apart for good. He knew he had been as culpable in this as Dean but he had no good excuse. Dean had been demonic, driven by the blade and the mark. Sam, Sam was driven by love and lust, by physical sensations he didn’t know he had or wanted until they were offered to him.

“Come on, Sammy.” Dean nudged his shoulder. “Just a little R & R, surely we are entitled to some fun?” He ran his hand down his chest and puffed it out. “Gotta’ clean the pipes once in a while.”

“You go, Dean.” Sam didn’t want to tell Dean he had no need to _clean his pipes_ and that his sex life had been alarmingly good over the past few months. He still had to hide the lesions that marred his wrists and ankles from where Dean had kept him captive, he still had the fading bruises on his skin from Dean’s teeth and nails.

“What’s eating you, Sam?” Dean’s brow furrowed and his mouth was turned down. “I thought you’d want to go and sink more than a few cold ones since you managed to cure me and save me, but you’ve been lurking about the bunker like a hermit. “

“I just don’t wanna’ go out, Dean.” Sam didn’t like acting like a spoiled brat but he knew that he was. Dean looked perplexed as if he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but was desperately trying to make whatever it was right. “I don’t want to _clean my pipes_.”

“Come on, Sammy.” Dean squeezed his shoulder, gentle and tender, and Sam just wanted to cry like a baby. “You need to get laid. How long is it since Amelia, huh? You certainly weren’t getting any during the trials and hell . . . I guess you didn’t do a lot of _pipe cleaning_ while I was playing demon.”

“I don’t need to get laid, Dean.” Tears that had been threatening for a while came tumbling down his cheeks. “I just wanna’ be left alone.”

“Sam,” it was that final plea that broke him, he turned on his brother, sobs shaking him, the lump in his throat so big it almost choked him.

“I’ve been having sex, Dean,” he choked out. “Regular sex,” his breath hitched, voice shaking. “With you!”

“What?” The color leeched from his brother’s face, milk white beneath the freckles, eyes, always green now staring at Sam wide with disbelief.

“I’ve been having sex with you, Dean.” Sam swallowed down bile. “You came to me, and you told me it was what you always wanted. You handcuffed me to the bed.”

“Did I . . . ?” Dean looked as if he might pass out, and Sam reached for him, heart sinking as Dean recoiled, and the horror on his face tangible. “Fuck, Sammy did I rape you?”

“No.” And if he had thought the first part difficult this was even worse. “No, Dean. For the most part – it was consensual.” He flushed, guilt and embarrassment making him feel nauseous.

“For the most part? Consensual?” Dean sat down heavily, his ass hitting the floor of the bunker with a thump. “I don’t get this, Sam. What the hell happened?”

“You said it was what you always wanted.” He was full on crying again and he buried his head in his hands for a moment trying to breathe through his nose, snot and tears smearing inside and out. “I-I . . . it wasn’t . . . ,” he said and dared a quick glance at Dean’s milk white face. “I wanted it,” he added, starkly. “I liked it.”

“When you were soulless you used to make passes at me,” Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless. “You used to make all sorts of suggestions. You had no shame really, but then again you had no morals at all.” Dean’s eyes looked dark again in his pallid face. “It was tempting,” he continued in that horrible, flat voice. “All those acres of tanned skin, an invitation to sin.” He slumped lower. “And now, y-you let me do _that_ to you, Sammy. Why?”

“I thought you were dead. I wanted to make all sorts of deals to get you back, and then there you were. I never knew I wanted it, never knew I wanted you, but when you touched me . . . I’m sorry.”

Dean was silent for a long time and then he got to his feet and walked away. Sam watched him go, watched the stiffness of his back, and the tension in his shoulders. For a moment he felt himself thrown back in time, back to the moment he had done exactly the same to Dean, back to the moment he found out there had been a rogue angel inside him and that his brother had put him there. He’d thought, at the time, that it was the worst thing that had ever happened between them.

He was wrong.

Guilt kept him awake at night. He found himself back at the liquor store buying raw jack, drinking until he passed out, waking hung over and sick, Dean never picking up, and his voice mail full.

He wasn’t sure how many days (weeks?) went by but, suddenly and without warning, Dean reappeared in the bunker. He looked tired; a reddish beard covering his cheeks and chin, hair longer than Sam had seen it in a while. His brother took one look at him lying sweaty, hung over and grubby in a corner of the bunker and he shook his head sadly.

“Sammy.” Big hands tucked themselves under his armpits and hauled him to his feet. He shuddered under the touch, head spinning wildly as his brother dragged him, without ceremony, into the shower and thrust him under the cold water fully clothed, freezing needles hitting his skin, shudders vibrating through him so hard he couldn’t even gasp. “What the fuck have you done to yourself? Thought you knew enough to survive without me by now. I thought you wanted us to be apart.”

“N-n-n-n-no,” he managed to stutter through clenched teeth. “N-not anymore Dean.”

“God, Sam.” His brother enveloped him into a hug, wet clothes and dripping hair and all. “I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted any of it.”

“S’ok.” He buried his head into Dean’s shoulder. “S’ok, you’re back now.”

Dean didn’t say anything but his teary sniff against Sam’s neck was enough; they didn’t need words, they never did, and Dean’s arms around him warm and comforting was enough, would always be enough.

****

Sober and drinking coffee black and sharp, Sam couldn’t take his eyes off his brother. Dean was clean shaven, and had a little more color in his cheeks. He kept looking up at Sam and then away again and Sam felt as if they were a courting couple rather than brothers.

“You gonna’ eat anytime soon?” Dean broke the silence by passing across a menu from their favorite Chinese takeout. “You look worse than you did when you had that bastard angel inside of you.”

“Yeah.” Sam didn’t feel hungry but he wanted to please his brother, he wanted things back to the way they were before Dean’s eyes turned black, or Sam had an angel inside of him.

“Sam,” Dean said and looked as if every word that came out of his mouth had to be dragged out, every single syllable forced from his lips. “What I said . . . what we did when I was a _demon_ . . . did you. . . ?” He swallowed hard and Sam saw how tough this was for his brother. “Did you enjoy it?”

He thought long and hard, Dean was asking for honesty and there really should be no more lies between them.

“Yeah,” he said and nodded, face hot. “I did. In the end I wanted it, needed it.”

“Would you . . . .” Dean’s face flamed. “Do it again?”

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” Sam’s smile was wry. “. . . Apart from you dying, and becoming a demon in the first place.” His eyes met those of his brother. “You killed Crowley, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that bastard deserved everything he got.”

Sam nodded but Dean hadn’t finished, his face was still puce, eyes over bright.

“What I said, it was true - all of it. I always loved you best, Sammy, that’s why it’s been so damn hard to ever let you go.”

“It isn’t normal or right,” Sam mused, heart thundering. “But what about our lives has ever been normal? Or right?”

“You had a life, Sam. You had a girl, and a house, and everything.”

“Yeah, but for that whole year I didn’t have you, Dean. Whatever I may have said, it wasn’t the same, and it wasn’t ever the same without you.”

“But when you found out about Gadreel you turned your back on me, Sammy.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was angry. I’m so fucking tired of someone else controlling this body. 

“I get that now.” Dean bit his lip. “There’s so much history between us, good and bad, do you think we could really . . . ?” He flushed again and Sam felt his heart lift, his stomach flipping, and his cock half hard in his sweats.

“I think we could try,” he stated, holding his breath, hoping.

Dean breathed out, long and relieved, his arms going round Sam’s shoulders to pull him close, the smell of leather and gun oil so familiar in his nostrils, the scent of old spice, sweat and Dean.

“Okay,” his brother whispered, nuzzling his neck and making him harder. “Let’s try.”

This time it WAS different. It was drawn out and tender, gentle and loving; Dean laid Sam down on his back and worshiped him with hands and mouth. He prepared Sam and entered him without pain, as he lay down over Sam and kissed him tenderly, held him close, gave him everything, gave him body and soul. Sam came with a cry clinging onto Dean like he was never going to let him go. When his brother reached his climax he held on just as tight and the two of them went on kissing passionately, neither of them wanting to let go.

“You know, there’s been no demon activity since you _cured_ me.” Dean’s arms were wrapped tight around him, his nose nuzzled into the juncture between his neck and shoulders. He felt warm and protected, safe for the first time in decades.

“You’re gonna have to work on your pillow talk, Dean!” Sam couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled unrestrained in his chest. “Kinda’ killing the mood here.”

Dean smirked and his grip on Sam tightened.

“Just telling it how it is,” he said. “Things have been pretty quiet. When we were . . . .” He shrugged. “Apart, I looked into it and there’s been nothing, no signs, and no deals. Nothing.”

“Do you think that we closed the gates of Hell?” Sam couldn’t keep the burning hope out of his voice. “Or that we finished the trials and nobody died?”

“Maybe.” Dean shifted a little and pressed his body up against Sam’s. “You know, for once, I can’t bring myself to care. Crowley’s gone, the mark’s gone, the blade . . . who knows. I’m tired, Sam. I’m so fucking tired, and I want out.”

“You wanna’ quit hunting?” The burning had developed into a full flame. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I’d like it if we lived somewhere nice, in the country, away from everything. A cabin somewhere like Rufus’s, but not made just for hunters.” His eyes met Sam’s. “The bunker’s okay, it was home for a while but it isn’t _home_ ,” he grinned. “Not for you, Sammy.”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam knew, deep down, that it would never be over, that it was the awesome orgasm talking, that the Winchesters would never truly be out. He knew this but he was prepared to _go for it_ right now. Maybe a few months of rest in their own cabin would be what they both needed. “Okay,” he acquiesced. “Let’s go for it.”

The cabin was small but compact, intimate and cozy. It had a fully equipped kitchen, a sitting room with a battered old couch and clichéd scatter cushions. There was an open fire and a large bedroom with a King sized bed. There was an old fashioned bath and a rickety shower and, to be frank, it was like something out of an old movie.

“This is romantic.” Dean was smirking as they dumped their bags in the bedroom. “I kinda’ think I should have carried you over the threshold.”

Sam laughed then feeling light and happy. It had been a long time since he’d felt like this, a really long time. He was alive; he was well and there was no angel inside of him, nothing hanging over his head. Dean was alive, the mark was gone and his brother was just a normal human being, not a demon. Not anymore. There had still been no demonic activity, a summoning spell done in the safe haven of the bunker had yielded nothing, and both Winchesters were actually beginning to believe.

Sam wasn’t a fool, they had been through too much for him to believe that this was the end, that they would live _happily ever after_ in their incestuous sin. He knew that, one day, something evil would come calling and the Winchesters would be _back in the saddle_ again. For now though, they were happy, warm and safe. No one in the tiny town knew they were brothers, they had their own safety deposit box in the local bank, their own account at the store, Sam had his own car and Dean had promised that they would get a dog.

The few friends they had left knew where they were; Jodie was close by and Garth within cell phone range. They didn’t need anyone else. They wouldn’t ever need anyone else. They would always depend on each other and, whatever happened between them they would always come together again for good or for bad.

They were brothers - the Winchesters; it was what they did.

End


End file.
